The Return of the Sith Lord Job
by Valawenel
Summary: This one is No.3 in Texas Mountain Laurel series, right after The Season Six Job. Small case, only 4 chapters, written for Secret Santa Challenge, for Bridgem76
1. Chapter 1

Hello again :)

This story was written for Secret Santa exchange, but this time I was able to write it openly as a part of Texas Mountain Laurel series, because my giftee was my reader and I knew she wouldn't mind.

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I might be forced to remove my stories from this site, and A03 permanently, because I will use them in my new original fiction.

I don't know when, and I have no means to send a warning before it happens. If any of you want to stay in touch, or have these stories as Word docs or PDFs, contact me at valaraucoramainenATyahooCOM, or valwenelATgmailCOM and put LEVERAGE in subject line. I will continue to write Leverage stories in this series, but email will be the only way to get them, so send your emails right now. I will collect your emails and in the future make a newsletter, and send stories to all of you in one go. Those new stories won't be published anywhere else - only you will get them.

Again, I don't know when it will be, so I maybe publish 1 or 2 more before that. I can't tell for sure.

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The Return of The Sith Lord Job

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Chapter 1.

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On the third day, Eliot Spencer ate an apple.

He was pretty sure it was the third day. Days and nights had no significance in an abandoned apartment. He didn't count them.

He had chosen a corner of the empty room to be his lair. Turning to the left, he could see two boobs carved into a wall, with a hole from Parker's bullet. On his right, a window with shutters closed tight let only thin lines of sunshine in. Half-darkness and silence wrapped a cozy blanket around him. Bare parquet flooring under his back, however, poked at every unhealed cut, bruise and broken ribs.

Betsy would probably kill him, seeing him going for so long without any food and medication only a few days after the PVA fights and his leaving the Mass Gen. In her eyes, this – whatever _this_ really was – would be just a slow ride to death. She would be right. In her world, things were neat, factual, lined up in a cause-effect order.

In his world, _this_ meant life. This meant recovery.

She knew nothing about a survival mode, and what a body could do when everything else was shut down. No input. No digestion that would occupy and use precious resources. A body needed only water to live, and he gave it only that.

With nothing else to do, put on a fast, his body healed at twice the speed.

His mind was something completely different.

On the fifth day, he ate another apple.

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"I'm bored."

Nate raised his gaze from his book. Parker stood before his desk, her hands on the small of her back, and her head a little tilted. He looked behind her, at a pile of locks and ropes made into a sculpture. The last time he checked, all parts were neatly lined up across the floor, and the thief was busy trying to lock pick them with her bare feet.

"Watch TV, Parker."

"Hah."

Yeah, he thought so. "Maybe you should try TV watching in your own place, for a change?"

"Don't have it."

He sighed and closed the book, then rested his back in the chair.

A small lamp on the table was enough to break all evening shadows, together with the light from the kitchen. Hardison's humming around the fridge showed Nate there was no chance he would manage to finish his book before Sophie came to pick him up. It was just a matter of time before Hardison came after Parker. He was certain he would find them both still here when they get back from dinner.

This had become part of his daily routine each day since Eliot left the Team and disappeared – tripping on his team members who were constantly _here_.

It was even worse yesterday. The Team gathered early in the morning, though they had nothing to do. He put a veto on any case without the hitter, and proclaimed a rest and recovery period. God knew they all needed it. Unfortunately, it didn't mean he would be left alone to recover himself – from fights, from almost bleeding out in tunnels beneath PVA ceremony, from _them_.

There was no briefing, and yet they stayed. He wouldn't mind Sophie hanging around, but Hardison and Parker, bored and restless, weren't so easy to endure for hours. It was Hardison who got the idea to have a Magnificent Seven marathon; only Florence and Eliot had watched the all seasons, the rest of the team stopped on Season 3.

That kept them occupied, but at the same time, it wasn't the best idea. All of them needed something that wouldn't remind them of Eliot's absence, and all the danger they survived. And of all the worries they all still shared.

Binge watching had lasted the entire day. Nate reminded them that Leverage Consulting and Associates didn't have working hours, and they didn't have to come to work today, but the results were pathetic.

Hardison's excuse today was a removal of Eliot's hospital bed. The hacker planned to transport it into the empty apartment near Mass Gen he had bought so they could monitor Eliot in his room, but it ended up in a back room of McRory's bar until he arranged the proper transport. It took only fifteen minutes this morning, and yet Hardison was still here, typing here and there, pretending to work on something.

Hardison returned to his laptop, carrying a plate with scrambled eggs. Nate checked his watch; Sophie was a little late, and he was hungry.

And Parker was still standing in front of him.

"Maybe you could go to the roof and check your ropes and other equipment there?"

"Already did that yesterday. Where are you and Sophie going?"

The frightening thought of dinner in four flashed before his eyes, but he smiled. "Nowhere in particular. The food isn't important, but our time alone is. We have to discuss a few private matters."

"Ah. Okay. But-"

Sophie arrived right on time to divert the thief's attention. Sophie waved to everybody, hung her coat and umbrella, and picked a cherry tomato from Hardison's plate while passing by.

Nate quickly got up. "No need to leave your coat, Sophie. I'm ready to go. You two, lock the place when you leave." An unspoken invitation for them to finally leave didn't move a muscle on Parker's face. She watched him as if he said nothing, as if she still waited for him to solve her boredom.

"As a matter of fact…" Hardison said, chewing for a moment. Nate motioned to Sophie to turn around and head for her coat. But too late. Hardison swallowed and continued, "I waited for all of us to be here. I have to show you something."

"It can wait."

"No it can't. Come here. Won't take a long."

Sophie changed her course and went to a sofa in front of the screens. "I'm not that hungry," she said. "What have you got, Hardison?"

Nate gave up and joined them. Parker huffed, too, and sat with them.

"I have… this." Hardison waved his hand to the screens, as if an eighth world's miracle would magically appear, but all they saw was a low quality recording of a few bushes by some pond.

"Fascinating," Sophie said, darting a glance to Nate sideways. "Care to expl-"

"Pay attention." Hardison clicked his remote and picture grew a little clearer; Nate saw passers-by and two dogs. There were even a few shapes on the water. Ducks, or swans maybe.

One more click, and two shapes standing on the bank came into focus. One smaller, with short blond hair, and one also blond but much taller… Nate almost cursed when he recognized her.

"Hardison, why are you spying on Florence and her husband?" he asked.

"Because-"

Parker didn't let him finish. She stood up and took a step closer to the screen. "This is Jethro?" Her voice was a combination of curiosity and immense coldness, and Nate sighed again.

"Knock it off, Parker. She is gone. She has her life, as we can see. Again, Hardison, why are we watching this?"

"Because we needed some sort of closure," the hacker said. "And because Eliot asked me to keep an eye on her when, if… when we were in tunnels and he locked me out and stayed to hold the door so we could get out. He, uhm – he asked me to take care of her… for him. And I was thinking…since he is gone, we can, we could, should-"

Nate heard enough. "Stop with that crap, Hardison. He isn't gone. He will come back when he decides he can."

"How can you be so sure? A lot happened, Nate. A _lot_."

Nate waved his hand to the eight marzipan pawns still lined up on the kitchen counter. Eliot left them for him when he left; it was a message and a promise.

Then he looked closer. Only five of them stood there. He glanced at Parker who first looked at her feet, then at the ceiling, and put her hands in her pockets.

"What?" she finally said. "They are delicious."

Hardison froze the two people on the screen with an impatient click. "Look, we can't be sure of anything when Eliot is in question," the hacker said. "Psychosis, anyone? He ain't himself. I'm still searching for him – and no, don't say: I told you not to – 'cause I have to do it. We have to know. Sophie, you know I'm right, tell him." Hardison looked at the grifter. "Sophie?"

But it seemed she didn't hear a single word the hacker said. Her head was tilted to one side a little, and her eyes, even keener than usual, bore into the two shapes on the screen with terrifying precision.

Nate glanced at the recording, then back at her. "What?" he asked. "Sophie, you there?"

Sharpness disappeared in a second; she blinked and smiled with her usual warmth. "Oh, nothing. I miss her, that's all."

Yet it wasn't just that. He nodded but looked again at the pair on the screen. Was he imagining, or there was something odd in their posture, some strange stiffness? Florence's hands hung by her body. They didn't reach one to another while they watched the ducks in the pond, didn't make even small, natural gestures. Almost like they-

"Nate." Sophie called and he stirred from his studying. "There's nothing wrong in checking on Eliot. I think you would be calmer if you knew he was alright, too."

He opened his mouth to tell them there wasn't any way that Eliot could be 'alright', at least not for now – but he shut his mouth and smiled instead. "Dinner?" he said. "We've got our closure. Florence is fine. I'm hungry. Nothing here that would keep us, well, here. Any of us."

Hardison nodded and left the remote, and for a long, long second Nate thought he would agree with 'any of us' part – but the hacker pulled his plate closer, sat more comfortably and raised his feet on the coffee table.

"In the next few days, we're bringing back our tall working desk here," Hardison said. "Sofa and coffee table have to go, no need for them anymore. We don't have guests who would sleep here."

So much for a day off.

At least he would have his evening off – if he hurried up before they thought of something else. He took Sophie's hand and tucked it under his arm, grabbing her coat along the way.

"See you tomorrow," _I hope not again tonight_ was clear in his voice, but he knew it was another message lost in translation.

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The abandoned apartment he had occupied was in an office building, and his nights were silent. No neighbors around him.

Silence came with twilight; silence and coldness. Days were much shorter. Tiny dust speckles that danced in sunshine, sparks he followed with his aching eyes for hours during the day, disappeared with the night.

During the day, they helped _him_ disappear. When he sat still, when his breathing was as shallow as he could, dust would float in the ray of sunshine too slow for the eye to notice a movement. The shallower his breathing was, the longer he could keep them immobile – sometimes for hours. As the sun travelled, so did the rays move over the floor, passing him by only a couple of inches, and then climbing up the wall to the bullet hole.

His mind was only a grain of dust caught in sunshine while those long hours lasted. But when the rays came closer, passing like Parker's laser beams in front of his face, his breath would disturb the dust, send them on a frantic dance.

That was the time, every day, he had to pull himself from that emptiness, and to force his mind to return to the empty apartment – because every time that happened, he thought that even the dust knew enough about him not to settle on him.

Sensory deprivation put order to his thoughts and erased the cacophony. He could process one thought at the time, slowly. People he killed. Check. Woman he lost. Check. People he sacrificed. Check. Woman he lost. Check. Hours and hours of it.

He endured days staring at the dust, but nights were unbearable.

There was no forgiveness he could ask, nor did he want to, even if he could. Only thing he could give to people he killed, was his memory. He never forgot a single victim's face.

The only thing he could give them in return, for taking their lives, was his own torment: pain and guilt, unleashed in full force. He forced himself to _feel_.

The first five days he barely moved from his corner. Bathroom and water were the only trips until on the sixth day he noticed that his legs were unsteady and every movement was slow and weak.

He came here to destroy himself - and rebuild himself - so he could return to the Team and keep them alive. Destroying himself went well. Rebuilding would be tricky.

He ate his third apple, watching the slits in the shutters darkening, and then he slowly got up.

Parquet creaked, but there were no people in the building anymore to hear it.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and raised his hands in Qi Shi, the first position of Tai Chi. Rebuilding would be a tough one.

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Hardison's transport service people arrived at an unearthly hour. Clouds made the early morning even darker, and the open door of an apartment let the coldness drizzle from the corridor.

A massive hangover with a headache, unexplainable because he drank only a few shots last night, settled on Nate's shoulders and neck. The cheerful chatting of Hardison's people, along with loud slams while they removed the sofa, banging into every possible obstacle, drilled entire corridors through his skull. Vibrations stayed and multiplied.

Parker arrived first. She paid no attention to the fact that Sophie slept over, so Nate could ignore her and concentrate on the coffee machine. Yet, before he could prepare coffee, Hardison arrived, and with him, the power went off.

"It won't last long," Hardison said, dragging wires from the power box to the middle of the room, where two guys were assembling their tall desk. "I have to connect everything, so give me an hour or two. Go get some coffee in the bar. Unless you want to join in."

Right, that should surely be the highlight of the day – making Hardison's desk twinkle.

Nate waved his offer off – still not quite able to arrange words into sentences – and headed to the McRory's bar. Sophie and Parker followed.

Cora wasn't at the bar. Her shift must've been afternoon and evening this week, and it was good. Her waiter Mike was here, and Nate couldn't remember if he ever heard him say a word, except 'good day', and 'usual?' Mike took care of a few early birds, and smell of fresh brewed coffee lit a few more lamps in Nate's brain.

If only Sophie and Parker stayed silent. If only Mike didn't-

"Good morning, Mr. Ford."

"Morning, Mike."

For years now, that would've been it – he would have his coffee, spiced without a question, and Mike would return behind the counter. But today – of all days - Mike stayed by their table, fidgeting with a tray.

 _No, Sophie, don't_ …

Sophie took her cappuccino and smiled at the waiter. "Is there something wrong?"

Mike put the tray on their table and sat. "I'm not sure, Miss Devereaux, but knowing you deal with other people's problems, I thought you might know what to do – or at least tell me something clever."

Nate resisted the urge to withdraw into the wall behind his back. "You're quite…eloquent this morning." Sophie's foot slammed at his, and he shut up.

"It's a small neighborhood trouble, nothing alarming. Nothing like things you deal with usually. There's that new Barrel shop, McTavish & Sons, built on the old construction ground at the end of a block."

"Oh, I've seen it!" Sophie said. "Lots of wood around. There used to be a small bakery, until it burned, right? It was an empty spot for years, if I recall correctly."

Mike nodded. "They rented the place and built barrel workshop, only a week ago. They produce all barrel sizes, from small souvenirs, to 100 gallon ones."

"And the problem is?" Nate said.

"Their workers. A bunch of loud, redheaded bullies – probably brothers because all of them are McTavish – who have been terrorizing the neighborhood since the day one." Mike looked over his shoulder as if expecting a horde to barge in, then continued in a lower voice. "I'm worried about Cora," he almost whispered. "Every day when she closes the bar, she takes a daily turnover to deposit. The closest bank is Wellford & Sons – door to door with the McTavish & Sons workshop. They noticed her, and started waiting for her when she passes-"

A loud snort stopped Mike mid-sentence.

They all turned to Parker. Her snort turned into a cackle. "Don't be silly," she said. "They aren't after Cora. They are after that bank."

"Ah, Parker, we can't project our-" Sophie started, then paused. "Normal people don't usually hunt banks, you know? Especially those with legitimate business who-"

Parker slowly put her hands on the table, and went very still. "Rented, not bought place," she stated calmly. "Loud business that covers any sounds, including drills. Constant watch of the surroundings and neighbors, masked as flirting. Construction leftovers which-"

"No," Mike said. "It's worse than a bank robbery. I think they're killers. And I'm not the only one."

Nate held his cup of coffee tighter and squinted. The Team was without a hitter, and even a small band of bullies might be too much for them now, unless they managed to deal with their business and force them to move. But killers? Impossible for them now.

"I can't prove anything," Mike continued, taking his silence as an invitation to go on. "I doubt there is even a body there anymore. But I saw a man walking into that workshop, and he never came back-"

Parker raised her hand. "Except maybe as a bank customer, going underground through-"

"Knock it off, Parker," Nate stopped her. "Let Mike finish."

"Thank you. I was-damn." A guest knocked on the desk, calling for him, and Mike jumped up. "I'll be back," he said, hurrying to serve him.

Sophie didn't lose any time. "Can we do anything to help?" she asked when a grumble of a coffee machine from the bar was loud enough so Mike couldn't hear her.

"I won't think about anything until we hear the entire story," Nate said, "and even then I'll think twice. Just last week all of us were in Mass Gen. Bullets, knives, you name it. I'm not sure we can handle a gang of…"

"Bank robbers?" Parked chimed in hopefully.

"Bullies. For now, only bullies. We'll see about that killer part."

Mike came back in a minute, carrying a coffee for himself. "Where was I? Ah, the man who never came back from the Barrel shop. Jesse saw him. You know Jesse? He is a regular here, a cousin of old Pete, twice removed-"

"Get to the point. He saw what, exactly?"

"A tall, unknown, dark-haired man parked his car in front of the shop and went in. Jesse was with his retriever. Dog owners use a small lawn beside the shop as a playground. He talked with Meghan – and her poodle Hugo – while the dogs played, so he saw after fifteen minutes one of McTavishes coming out, taking that man's car, and driving away."

Nate sighed. "There are numerous explanations for that."

"Yes, but Jesse was a cop. He stayed, waiting to see dark-haired man going out. He never did. He stayed until closing hours, first sitting on a bench at the playground, and then watching from the store across the street so they couldn't see him. They closed the shop and left."

"It's cold outside," Sophie said. "Maybe that man went out with a cap or hat, so he couldn't see his hair color, mistaking him for one of workers, those red-headed guys?"

"Negative. Jesse said it wasn't possible."

Parker raised her hand again. "Maybe the dark-haired guy is still underground, digging a tunnel towards the bank and-"

Nate scowled at her, and she lowered her hand. But though his headache wasn't any better, and he definitely didn't want to get any job right now, he had to admit he felt a tiny spark of interest flickering.

"Jesse didn't remember a license plate, and though he asked his buddies about that model of a car, it was a dead end. Toyota Camry; seven of them were reported stolen around that time." Mike pulled out a piece of paper and put it in front of Nate. "That's the car. Maybe Hardison can do something?"

"And what do you want from us? If you're worried about Cora, we can walk with her for a couple of days when she goes to Wellford & Sons."

"They have been coming to the bar every day for the past few days, on their way to becoming regulars. People avoid them; they are loud, rude, always looking for a fight. Very soon it will become bad for business here, not to mention Cora is in their sights every day."

"Okay, we can be here more often, besides taking her to the bank. But we can't take any real job now… we're not complete." Nate endured two sideways stares. "And we're busy with real cases, so…"

"Maybe there isn't anything to do. Jesse might be mistaken. As you said, there might've been numerous other explanations. But I would be calmer if you would take a look. That's all."

In a moment's silence, Nate could clearly hear the banging of hammers from above. Maybe if they did a small recon, Hardison and Parker would consider that a working day, and go home after they finished? It was worth a try.

"Okay Mike. We'll go there and see what that's all about. Tomorrow's Monday, so we will be there when they open the door."

Parker's gleaming face was not a good sign.

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"No, Parker, you are home because you aren't needed, and not because I think you'd drill for secret passages to the bank."

"I wasn't planning any drilling," a sulky voice said in their earbuds.

"Good for you!" Nate poured a smirky cheer in his voice. "Now go upstairs to my bedroom – I have new harnesses there that need checking. That will keep you occupied and happy until we're back."

"Gah," an unhappy voice said then disappeared, leaving only silence on her end of the comm. She must've pulled the earbud out.

And that was a good thing. Nate was too busy with Sophie to pay any attention to a sulking thief. They were both already in McTavish & Sons Barrel workshop. Hardison was in front, hacking their Wi-Fi, trying to get to security cameras.

"Oh. My. God." Sophie flew to another small barrel, and Nate set his face into shoot-me-now expression of a depressed husband. He followed her, dragging his feet on a dazzlingly clean floor. He chose a limping, well-suited CEO of Whatever for this case, and he swirled his walking cane in his fingers. Sophie's high heels clickity-clacked, followed with an occasional thump of his cane while they mapped out the store. A hand-saw screeched in the background, and someone with a feel for music could come up with a pretty good beat.

It was the fourteenth barrel in a row that drew Sophie's voice into an unpleasantly high pitch of excitement, and their salesman – tall, heavily built, and red-headed - finally gave up and withdrew to another customer.

In her frantic flying from barrel to barrel, Sophie covered the entire store, so Nate could observe every detail. And all people. A level of testosterone was hitting the roof in here. He had seen five brothers, or close cousins: two here in the store, and three in a back room that looked to be a workshop, working with wood. A small woman stood at the counter; her nametag said Noreen. Her smile never changed, yet her eyes blinked in a rapid, nervous series. Her hair was darker than the others', but the family resemblance was clear.

"Look at this one, darling!" Sophie chirped over another damn wooden thing. "It has little engraved letters in some strange-"

"In fact," a deep male voice said behind them, "it's not engraved. It's wood burning, hand-made. Every piece of-"

"Oh, a pyrography?"

An older redheaded man, probably McTavish of McTavish and Sons, blinked at her. "Pyrowhat?"

"Never mind. I'm in awe, dear Sir." Sophie set her accent from Slightly British to Are You Fucking Kidding Me Your Royal Highness, and the man straightened his back in a second. "Would you mind showing me the place where this magic is born? I'd be delighted to take a peek. Besides, I'm thinking of a huge order – a _huge_ order, and maybe a long term cooperation."

"We don't usually take customers to our-"

She waved her eyelashes and set her smile to tropical, and the man sighed. He reached with his hand. "My name is Peter McTavish, at your service."

Sophie gave him tips of her fingers, and for the moment Nate thought he would bend over and kiss her hand. "Fiona Ainsworth," she said. "Now, would you be so kind…?"

"Yeah, sure. Follow me."

Nate waved the cane at them. "You go dear," he said. "I'll wait here. And try not to buy the whole place, please."

He watched them leave through the arch that separated a spacious workshop from the store, and continued to drag his feet from corner to corner, barrel to barrel.

A shriek-y barking from his earbud for a moment covered all the sounds in the shop, and his ears buzzed.

"Control that banshee, Hardison," he muttered in his scarf. "I can't hear a word."

"Easier said than done," Hardison's voice grumbled over the barking. "I have no power over-oh, c'mon! He is twice your size, you can't attack- Hugo wait!"

Nate rearranged his scarf and used the movement to pull out his earbud. Hardison's troubles with a hysteric poodle he borrowed from Meghan in McRory's might've been amusing, but Noreen behind the counter was talking with her brother, and he had to hear it.

A huge shelf behind the counter was filled with souvenirs, and that gave him an excuse to come closer.

Barking was heard from the open door now. Hardison had positioned himself on the same bench Jesse took while monitoring the shop, in a middle of a lawn, in front of the door and only slightly to the right of them. He had his laptop with him and a cup of warm coffee. Expensive, stylish coat, and glasses screamed a benign hipster louder than any banshee ever could.

Good thing it wasn't raining today. For now.

By the time he came to the counter, the conversation had ended. The brother left to serve another customer.

Nate appeared to study miniature barrels on the shelf, but actually he watched Noreen. She typed something, not paying any attention to him. Just for a test, he intensified his gaze at her, and she stirred in a second. Good spatial awareness. And also, a probable sign of abuse. People who expected attacks from an early age usually could sense when being watched or approached. Yet, simply living with a lot of older brothers might've trained her, too.

But a happy childhood with a loving but playful bunch of brothers wouldn't put this caution in her eyes. She was aware he watched her, and he could feel her alertness going up.

"Can you wrap those three small barrels for me before my wife comes back?" he said with his warmest voice. "I'd like to surprise her."

"Of course." An equally warm smile came as response, and she relaxed. She wasn't much over Hardison's age, Nate could see now, when her eyes - strangely dark, almost black - weren't darting all around, as if checking the position of her brothers. She was too shy and too quiet to be engaged in a conversation that would reveal something important. Yet, he could try.

"Your family been in this business long?"

And the caution was back in an instant. "My father inherited it from my grandma," Noreen said. "Would you like a simple, paper wrap? It doesn't have our logo, nothing to guess what's inside."

"Sure, that's a good idea."

The barking from outside stopped, and he used her turning around to fetch papers to put his earbud back in. Sophie's chatting with the oldest McTavish was still warm and polite, so nothing to worry about.

There was no need to linger here any longer. He saw everything he needed to see, and if Hardison was done with security cameras, they were ready to-

"Hey!" a grumble in his earbud wasn't Hardison. The voice was deeper. "Whatcha watching? Is that our shop on your screen? Callum, come 'ere!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Back off – don't touch my laptop or I will-"

A loud thump was followed by Hardison's grunt of pain.

Nate turned sideways so he could see through the front door out of the corner of his eye. Two large men blocked his view of Hardison, their fists and feet slamming at the hacker.

"Gonna teach ya a lesson, ya twally-washer!"

Behind the fighting group, passer-bys stopped and watched. This was going south very fast.

"Sophie, come here. Hardison, listen up," Nate said while limping toward the door. "We'll play Roundabout Victim, version three."

Even before he reached the door, and Sophie joined him, the noise from outside changed.

"Help! Help!" Hardison sounded terrified now.

"You sonofa-!" Dull sounds of fists hitting flesh covered Hardison's yelps, and Nate almost forgot to limp, speeding up.

He knew they shouldn't have got into trouble without a hitter to cover their backs, but this was way too soon.

Noreen and her father barged through the door a second after they flew out and saw the scene on the lawn.

McTavish No.1 - by the looks and posture the oldest brother - hovered over kneeling Hardison. It looked like Hardison was hugging himself, protecting his ribs and stomach from the hits, but a corner of a laptop was seen under his coat; Hardison held it tight, hiding it from the eyes of a quickly gathering crowd.

McTavish No.2, two steps away from them, tried to keep Hugo at bay. The poodle jumped and barked hysterically, and with Hardison's calls for help, the level of noise became frantic.

"Somebody call the Police!" Hardison cried. "Help! They're robbing me!"

Nate turned to Noreen and their father and put an aghast disbelief on his face. "Are they your sons?!"

"Well, yes, but I'm sure there's an expla-" An explanation they couldn't allow them to give.

"Stop them! They are hitting that man! This is unbelievable!"

McTavish No.2, deranged with the noise, made the mistake of his life, and pushed Hugo with his foot. He did that pretty gently, in fact, but Sophie didn't need more.

She screamed. "Oh my god, he kicked the puppy! Oh my god, he kicked the puppy! Oh my god, he kicked the puppy!" Sophie's wailing drew even more people around them.

"That dog was trying to bite me!" McTavish No.2 yelled.

"He had our cameras on his laptop!" McTavish No.1 yelled even louder, but stopped hitting Hardison.

The hacker crawled a few feet away from him, reaching for Hugo with one hand – the other still clutching his laptop – like a dying man would reach for his long lost love - and the crowd reacted. Two guys stepped forward and scowled at McTavish brothers, while one woman ran to Hugo.

"I can't believe this! Poor boy!" Sophie ran to Hardison and helped him up. An older woman joined her; they helped him walk away from the lawn, closer to the crowd. The woman who took Hugo hurried after them.

"Cancel my orders, Miss," Nate said when father McTavish opened his mouth to speak. They needed only five more seconds of confusion for Hardison to escape. "I won't shop here ever again! I hope that man presses charges. Unbelievable!"

"My son said something about a laptop and our cameras-"

Nate spread his arms and looked at the closest women. "His son kicked the puppy, for god's sake!"

Murmur of anger rose around them; people nodded.

"It's just sad," Nate shook his head, turned around and left, slowly, with a heavy limp.

Sophie and Hardison passed behind the row of bystanders, advancing slowly. They had a hundred feet more before they passed by the bank and disappeared around the corner. One minute, maybe more. They would need another minute to get rid of the woman who carried Hugo – only after that he could join them, not before.

Nate didn't turn back, and every step felt as if it took a month to make it. The hairs on his neck stood up. He waited for a hand to grab his shoulder and stop him, but the only sounds behind him were of an angry crowd spitting accusations and outrage on the McTavishes.

He counted steps and deliberately slowed them down, erasing from his posture every sign of retreat, and yet he felt someone's eyes on his back. The urge to look back was almost unbearable; someone in the arguing group studied him.

Someone was suspicious.

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He found Sophie and Hardison, alone with a confused Hugo, on a small street at the far end of the block.

It took only one look at Hardison to know that the fight wasn't just a quarrel. A split lip and already swollen eye were visible, but his posture showed much more. He was sitting bent, clutching his shoulder and ribs, and breathing in shallow gasps.

"They booted him," Sophie said. "We should take him to hospital."

"It's just a few bruises, Soph. Knock it off."

Her lips thinned. "Don't play Eliot on us."

Nate stepped in and took the laptop from him. Hardison needed a breather before they tried to reach McRory's, so he didn't try to pull him up. "What the hell happened back there?"

Now was Hardison's turn for lip thinning, just in his case it was followed with a pained grimace. "One of them came behind my back. I didn't see him. I didn't notice him watching my screen. I was… reckless."

No, he wasn't. He was just without back up, alone, not used to monitoring his surroundings.

They weren't expecting any trouble on a job that wasn't yet a real job, but Nate knew the only one reckless here was him, not Hardison. He should've been prepared for everything. He wasn't.

"Let's go. We'll talk later, when we get you home and patch you up. Sophie, you take Hugo." He gave the laptop to Sophie and pulled Hardison to his feet.

Step by step, with the hacker's arm over his shoulder for support, they headed home, taking a long turn. He couldn't be sure if they might be followed. It took more than half an hour to make what was usually a ten minute walk to their building.

They stopped on the back street; Nate left to return Hugo to Meghan, and to see if path was clear. The McTavishes had nothing that could connect them with McRory's bar, but this time he didn't want to risk anything.

Ten minutes later, when they stepped out of the elevator and into their corridor, Nate allowed himself to relax. Hardison also let out a long, relieved sigh, though somewhat wheezing.

Nate even had to suppress a smirk, when he remembered they could call Betsy to take a look at Hardison's cuts and bruised ribs – that would be a show that would lighten anybody's spirit…. But they were only three steps from the door of A2 when a long scream came from the apartment.

It was unmistakably Parker's voice. And it was full of pain.

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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Ten days was awfully little time to recover from almost dying in the tunnels under the PVA ceremony. The inventory process was painful; four broken ribs, numerous cuts and bruises, dislocated wrist, a loss of blood, and not to mention a re-opened bullet wound in his chest.

Long days of immobility didn't help him. When he moved, every joint cracked and screeched. He was slow, stiff, and weak.

Tai Chi gave him his flexibility back, but only strength could give him back his speed. Tai Chi also calmed his mind. In his job, strength and speed were less important than a correct assessment of the situation.

His mind was the real enemy here – a fucked up, unreliable piece of shit still fighting with traces of drug induced psychosis. He could fight with even nastier wounds… but he couldn't fight and win with a confused mind and slowed reactions to danger.

Yes, he was slow and weak when he opened the door of his lair for the first time in ten days and went out, but his mind was set in order, all the little boxes shut tight and sealed. Florence was the last one that he sealed and moved into the darkest corner of his brain; a small, beautiful emerald box with huge letters in gold: Finished.

Damn, how he missed her.

Sitting on the floor, in the darkness, had sometimes been unbearable - her smile was so vivid before his eyes that he could almost touch and taste her skin.

Yet as long as he knew she was somewhere out there, still smiling, he could live without her.

He had to. The Team relied on him. They couldn't work without a hitter.

It wasn't important that he walked like an old man who still couldn't bend his wrist, or even that he couldn't hold anything heavier than a cup of water. He had started his rebuilding.

The first thing he did was go to his place and make a large bowl of chicken soup. For the next few days, before he tried eating solid food again, only soup would be tolerable.

The second thing to do would be a warm bath. For hours. Sometimes, deep in the night, he would still smell the rotten wood and mold in the tunnels. That stench mixed with the memory of a damp back street behind McRory's, where he had killed Barclay. Water would take that away.

The third thing to do would be buying two guns. He still had one thing to solve; one thing lingering around him. Today, he was going to end it for good.

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With new clothes and jacket he looked as if nothing had happened. He even shaved.

He grabbed his spare keys and his phone. _Just another usual day at the office_. They wouldn't ask questions, he knew that. Everybody would pretend there wasn't anything unusual in his simply showing up after he left without a word.

Sometimes it was good to have socially awkward people as friends; silences were welcome for his part.

He carried a duffel bag over his left shoulder. The box in it wasn't heavy, but it was still too much for his right arm. He had to spare it for later. Guns were dangerous in unsteady hands.

The first unexpected trouble he encountered was in the corridor in front of Nate's apartment. He forgot Florence's door was opposite A2. Those doors were the first thing he faced when he left the elevator, and a painful twist in his stomach stopped him short.

He could still see abrasions from the attempted robbery, from the first day they met.

The emerald box in his mind cracked a little, and a warm giggle escaped. A twinkle of mischief in her eyes and a dazzling smile flew before him. A ghost of her laughter would rattle the chains in his nights for a very long time. Yet he shut the box again, pushed it deeper. _Finished_.

He strolled past the door and unlocked A2 not even bothering to knock first. He never knocked.

Only silence welcomed him. There was no one there.

The apartment looked like it had before Florence first entered it – no hospital bed, no sofa. A cold working desk stood in the sofa's place, and he tried to convince himself it was better for him. Every time he looked at that sofa, he would remember her and her touch.

He walked around searching for any sign of trouble, but it seemed they simply left to do something. Dirty dishes in the sink were put there only a few hours before, and a half drank coffee in the cup smelled fresh, too.

There was, though, one new thing that they didn't remove.

Nate's working desk was returned in its old place under Old Nate on the wall, replacing the hospital bed. George stood on it.

He slowly came closer, watching the small tree.

It was strange thing, that psychosis. Now, when he could look back at it from a distance – and recovered – it was pretty weird that his hallucinations gave him a talking tree companion. No, not exactly 'talking' tree. George's communication skills were mostly smirks, snickering, and occasional humming. But he could express so many feelings and moods with only that; he was a person.

He seemed dead now. His leaves were just leaves, nothing more. Just a plant.

And much to his surprise, that loss, on top of all others, came as a blow in the gut.

He turned his back on the plant and took three deep, calming breaths. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

He needed George back then, to keep him sane, to keep him alive. That was George's only purpose. It wasn't needed now, so he was gone. It was natural-

" _Pfffftt_."

He slowly turned around.

The smirk was back.

And once again, he could read the plant without any effort. ' _Who isn't needed? You're such a master in recognizing what you need, right_. _Keep telling yourself that_.'

"Oh, shut up, you moron," he said, but he felt a smile broadening on his face, and that stunned him. He hadn't smiled once since he left.

Well, a normal person would be worried that this proof of psychosis he thought he had gotten rid of still lurked somewhere in his mind – but instead he felt only relief.

"Welcome back, you crazy son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. His vocal cords were rusty and stiff. Ten more days and he would have forgotten how to speak.

"My words exactly," a quiet voice behind him said.

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Parker didn't make a sound while climbing down the winding stairs from Nate's bedroom to check the noises in the living room.

Eliot didn't hear her – alarming thought, when you think of it– so she could watch him watching George long enough to feel something warm and annoyingly fuzzy moving in her chest.

She left her earbud upstairs when she had disconnected herself from the team, so there was no squealing in their ears.

First of all, she had to check there was a reason to squeal at all.

Eliot looked… well, Eliot-y. She was never good in assessing people's moods and feelings, but postures she could read with ease. Almost Eliot-y, she corrected herself. He looked thinner than before the hospital, after all she had done to make him eat, and he was still without the edge that usually followed his every move. Slow. Hesitant.

"My words exactly," she said to make him turn around so she could see his face.

A trace of a smile still lingered there, but no, this wasn't their old Eliot. This was still that new one, born in That Night of fight with Chileans - a silent, closed off man with cautious eyes.

She came closer and held up her hand, slowly. He waited.

She poked him in his good arm. He raised his eyebrows.

Well, at least he was of flesh and blood and not a ghost.

She poked him again and again, waiting, observing; she poked him again and finally, he gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

"How many times are you going to do that, Parker?" And there it was… annoyance.

She beamed a smile at him. "Are you staying for dinner?" she asked, still with her index finger ready for another poke.

"You're hungry." That wasn't a question. "Why are you alone?"

"I was left behind because they thought I would drill a tunnel in a barrel shop they are visiting. Long story."

Eliot tilted his head a little, now observing her observing him, and she couldn't help but smile even broader. "That's good," he said. "It's better they ain't around."

"Why?"

He went to Nate's desk and put a duffel bag beside George. "I brought something for you," he said, and she gasped, quickly counting days until Christmas. The bag made a solid thud sound, as if something thick was in it – it didn't sound like a million dollars in big banknotes at all.

He opened the bag and pulled out a wooden box. Rich reddish wood was engraved with silver linings.

"Diamonds?" she breathed.

But then he opened the box, and her mouth fell open - it was the most inappropriate thing a man could put in such a beautiful box…

"No Parker," he said. "I'm gonna teach you how to shoot."

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Sophie was behind Nate and Hardison in the corridor when they heard Parker scream. A long wail of pain froze her mid-step, and she just stood there with rubbery legs, as the scream went on and on. It was like an earthquake, the thought flew through her stupor; you stand, frozen, and just feel it, feeling so small while everything crumbles. You can't move.

Hardison and Nate didn't even stop. The moment they heard the scream, both of them slammed at the door of the apartment, all bruises forgotten.

The door gave way and they flew inside, disappearing from her sight.

She drew one shaky breath and forced her legs to move, not wanting to walk in there, not wanting to see what caused that scream. A picture of Parker lying unconscious after Eliot had shot her That Night flew before her eyes – all three of them ran to her the same way then. The memory was too raw, too fresh, too near.

But the scream didn't stop; it only became muffled when the two of them entered the apartment, so she followed them with her heart in her throat.

The first thing she saw was four people standing as statues. Nate and Hardison frozen mid-step just like her a second before, stopped as if they ran into a wall.

And in the middle of the room, behind the working table, Parker and Eliot.

Sophie was so shocked that it took two seconds before she comprehended that Eliot was there, because his right arm was raised, holding a gun that was pointed at Parker's head.

Both of Parker's hands were covering her face, and that was what muffled her scream – it slowly faded into a low keening. When the keening finally stopped, dead silence fell on the room.

"What on Earth…" Hardison said first.

"What?" Eliot turned his head to them, but his hand didn't move.

"You're asking _what_?!" Nate took a step closer. "What the hell are you doing with that gun?"

"Practicing. Explaining to her why it's bad to shoot your teammates. Teaching her to shoot."

Parker growled, still covering her face. That half angry grunt stirred Sophie; she passed Nate and carefully touched the thief. "Everything okay, sweetie? What happened? Are you hurt?"

The thief peeked at her through raised fingers, showing red, teary eyes.

Sophie wasn't prepared when Parker suddenly moved. The thief lowered her hands from her face – and Sophie only then saw she also held a gun in her hands – and grabbed her.

It was strange how strong those hands were. Parker turned her to face Eliot in one quick move. One hand wrapped around her neck, and the other pointed a gun at Eliot.

"And what now?" Parker hissed.

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Look, you really think you'll be able to understand why it's wrong to shoot at your teammates, by holding those same teammates hostage in a gun fight? How wrong is that?"

"You do the talking. I'll do the winning."

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "You chose the wrong man to test," he said. He leveled his gun, and Sophie looked directly into the barrel… then he pulled the trigger.

Water flew in a long, sharp line, missing her ear by a thread, splashing Parker's face. Another scream echoed in Sophie's ears, but this time anger poured through every sound.

Parker released her, and Sophie licked a few drops that landed on her cheek. It tasted sour. It tasted like… "You put a lemon juice in that gun?!" Parker's wail was now explained. If that got in her eyes…

"Yeah. A few drops in lots of water. So what?"

"You, you… moron." Her own anger mixed with relief, and the flow of words clogged before she could say everything she wanted.

"Now you have something against squirt guns, too?" Eliot waved his hand to Nate and Hardison who still stood with their mouths open. "Would you rather I brought a real gun?"

"That's not the point! You can't squirt lemon juice in your teammate's eyes!"

Parker's wail stopped in a second. "Is that a new rule?" she asked, perplexed.

Sophie turned around, searching for the nearest wall to bang her head into. "No, sweetie, it isn't a new rule," she said as gently as she could. Then she looked at Eliot again. "And you. How on earth did you think she would understand that shooting us would be wrong, with this?!"

"She had to learn that shooting in general isn't benign. There's nothing 'useful' in shooting. There's-"

"So you sprayed lemon juice in her eyes, hoping that would form a negative association in her brain? Is that so, Eliot? Pavlov classical conditioning?"

"Now when you put it that way…"

"Well, I have news for you – she isn't a dog!"

"It was working until you came in," he said, crossing his arms, as stubborn as she ever saw him.

He really thought…he really wouldn't listen - he… Her frustration grew to explosion. "Fuck this shit," she whispered. She turned around, took the gun from Parker, and shot him right between his eyes.

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Nate spiced his coffee with Jack before going back to the others. This day definitely felt like some-coffee-in-a-lot-of-Jack-day. He had hard time keeping the snicker off his face, but he had the feeling no one was fooled.

Hardison was the only one who sat comfortably, though trying not to touch his chair with any of the new bruises. The sulking trio sat stiff, with three pairs of arms crossed over their chests.

"But I really didn't mind-" Parker started, but Sophie raised her index finger a little. The thief sighed and shut up.

"I don't know what the big deal-" Eliot tried next. This time, Sophie uncrossed her arms completely, pointed her right hand at him and _then_ raised her index finger.

He shut up as well.

Nate wasn't sure could they recognize Annie Croy pouring through Sophie's eyes, but their self-preservation was always on a high level. "Before we start the briefing," he said "we have to know are you just visiting us, or are you here to stay?"

"I'm back, aren't I? What else-"

"But who is back?" Hardison jumped in. "Jedi Master, or Sith Lord? What cape are you wearing right now, Obi Wan Eliot?"

"My give a damn is busted, but my fuck off works perfectly, Hardison."

"With a stare like that, you definitely don't need middle fingers. Yes, our happy-go-lightly is back."

Parker snorted. "You mean angry-go-psycho?"

"Annoyed-go-geeky. Let's not forget that man chose a tree for his patronus, and that says a lot, ya read me?"

Nate opened his mouth to finish this conversation, but he was too late. Sophie looked at them, one by one, and said only one word: "Enough." But a leaden weight in that one word shut their mouths better than any of his yelling could do.

In the silence that fell, he gave Eliot a short recap of the previous day - the talk with Mike and today's barrel fiasco.

"How many of them?" Eliot asked when he finished.

"We saw five brothers total, one father, one daughter/sister – and a few possible cousins just as Jesse said."

Eliot turned his head and studied the blooming bruises on Hardison's face for a few moments. "What's the plan?" he finally said.

"First things first – return there and see what are they hiding. Hardison, what did you see on their security cameras?"

Hardison grunted when he moved and pointed a remote at the screens. They all studied the shop on the black and white feed.

"I don't have much, except one thing," Hardison said. "They turn the cameras off after work hours."

"Ha!" Parker said. "They are digging! The store is leaning on the bank, they need only a couple of feet to go under-"

"No, Parker." Nate took the remote from Hardison and walked closer to the screens. He clicked the remote and enlarged the lower part of the recording. "I walked all over the store and mapped the entire floor with my cane. No echo anywhere. There's no basement under the store, and no holes either."

"What about the workshop behind the store?" Eliot asked.

"Didn't enter it today. But the store is between the workshop and the bank, and they would have to dig a tunnel all the way under the store. That's insane."

Parker's face fell.

"But they are definitely doing something," Nate continued. "They all seemed pretty busy in the workshop, but for what I've seen, it was too clean. No sawdust anywhere. And the barrels in the shop all have _Made in China_ labels."

"One more thing," said Sophie. "Peter McTavish, the father, didn't know what pyrography is. One would expect someone who is in wood burning to know that."

"So, whatever they do, they do it after work hours," said Eliot. "Unless those cameras are there only for shoplifters."

Hardison smirked. "How do you shoplift a barrel?"

"Point taken."

Nate took a long sip of his coffee before returning to the table. "We have a missing man, people. I think that workshop hides enough secrets to keep us occupied. Hardison's unfortunate encounter with the McTavish brothers stopped us; we did only the store. Eliot and Parker, can you two do the workshop part of the recon?"

Eliot glanced at the screen. Nate couldn't tell what he thought about it. "Now?" the hitter asked.

"There's a few hours before closing time, and night comes early. After that, we all go to McRory's. Jesse said they're becoming regulars, so you'll be able to observe them, and also to keep an eye on Cora."

"What about us?" Sophie said. "The two of us are compromised. Hardison too. We must not be seen."

Nate swirled the coffee cup in his hand, thinking.

"No," he said. "Not this time. We'll do something different today. We'll all be there - let us be seen and stir the waters. Let them think about what's going on. A confused opponent is forced to make steps – and that can lead to mistakes."

"Since we're doing unusual things," said Eliot, "we can do one more. We can clear the path and give us more leeway by simply putting some of them in ER. One good fight, and there won't be anyone who can jump you when you go to do your mastermind thing tomorrow or later."

Nate saw a quick glance between Sophie and Hardison. He wasn't the only one aware of how little time had passed since Eliot left the hospital. But the hitter wouldn't suggest that if he wasn't completely sure he could do it. His return was proof he was the himself again – and Nate always trusted him.

"That would be useful," he said, "But tomorrow, not tonight. This evening, if they show up in McRory's, we'll do assessment. Tomorrow there will be enough time to put up a fight and clear the way, okay?"

Nate's phone rang before Eliot could agree. Unknown number. He clicked the phone. "Yes?"

"It's Mike, Mr. Ford. Jesse just called me. He kept an eye on the McTavishes, and now he saw one more man not going out."

Nate thought a second about the logic of that last sentence, but said nothing about it. "Is there a back door to the workshop?"

"No. Only two windows. But even if that man went out through the window, the question is why? Something's very strange there, I tell you."

"Couldn't agree more. Did Jesse say how that man looked?"

"Dark hair, and dark beard. No way could he mistake him for a McTavish."

"Okay Mike, we're on it. Thanks."

Eliot and Parker were already on their feet when he finished the call.

"Do you two need a distraction?" Nate asked. He really meant backup, but didn't say it.

"I'll be a distraction," Eliot said. "That workshop isn't that big, Parker will be in and out in less than three minutes. That much time I can give her."

"Searching for anything specific?" Parker asked.

"No," Sophie said. "I was in the workshop with Peter McTavish, but we only stood at the archway that divides store and workshop. Didn't go any further. I didn't see anything suspicious, but there are two doors on the outer wall, probably two more rooms. Try to see what's inside. There's also a wooden roof, yet no openings that I saw. Probably nothing up there."

"Wait." Hardison got up, slowly, suppressing a moan. He dragged his feet to his laptop bag, and returned with a button camera. He attached it to the thief's dark blue shirt. "Now we'll see what you see, so move around as much as you can."

And that was it. On his way to the door, Eliot stopped at the kitchen and took two sips of Jack directly from the bottle, and then they were gone.

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It was only a short walk from the apartment to the McTavish & Sons Barrel shop. Parker didn't say a word about their shooting practice – all three of the others were listening via earbuds anyway – so Eliot didn't broach that subject, either.

They walked together until the bank, and just when they took two steps in different directions, each going their separate ways, a McTavish stepped out from the store. They watched him go to the red Toyota Camry parked in front.

"Jesse said that was the missing man's car – he came here in it." Nate said in his ear.

"Well, this isn't a dark haired bearded man for sure," Eliot said.

"And imagine that; red Toyota Camry again," Hardison said. "Of course it would be the most common, most sold car in US involved in this. God forbid we would have something a little more unique, and easier to search for and find. Bah!"

"The point is," Nate's calm voice trailed in. "That whatever is happening to the missing man, it's happening now. Hurry up."

Parker turned on her heel and headed for a back street. The workshop, where it wasn't leaning on the bank, was surrounded by the rest of an empty construction site. The barrel-making family obviously didn't think they should invest in making their surroundings appealing for their customers.

Eliot went straight to the front entrance, slowing down his steps, making them unsteady.

Noreen McTavish stood behind the counter talking on the phone, and two other brothers were busy with customers, so no one paid any attention to him.

"That taller one is Callum," Hardison said. "Don't know the name of the one who first attacked me."

"I'm in position," Parker said. "One window is open. Waiting for your sign, Eliot."

"Gimme a minute."

He reminded himself that the store was recorded; if the McTavishes later watched the tape, they should see him swaying from the beginning.

He rocked on his heels, humming to himself, glancing around, until he noticed a hundred and some tiny barrels stacked one on another, creating a pyramid almost his size. He trotted there, swayed and snickered, then pulled out one of the barrels from the lower half.

The pyramid collapsed and small barrels exploded all over the place. He laughed, tripped over a barrel rolling across the floor, and he crashed into a shelf with five gallon sized barrels. Everything crumbled.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he raised his hands in the air, lying on his back. "Haha, did you see that? Boom! Sorry but I can't stop laughing."

Two brothers and Noreen were all over him, the customers also helped, but he saw that only two more brothers from the back workshop joined the mess.

"I'm in," Parker's whisper was barely heard in all the voices speaking at the same time around him. "But Peter McTavish is still here. I can't move."

He pushed away all hands that were pulling him up. "Your store is dangerous! Do you have security here? What about legal protection for consumers? I could've died in here! I want to speak with your manager, now!" He shook off a pair of hands that were still on him, and smiled at Noreen. "Hello there, sweetheart," he slurred the words and breathed Jack at her. "Manager! Where's the manager of this deadly place?!"

"Going your way," Parker said. "I'm in. Keep him there two minutes. Checking the back side of the workshop – estimated time one minute."

"I am Peter McTavish. How can I help you?"

Eliot cleared his voice and straightened his back. A drunk making trouble would be expelled from here in fifteen seconds, so he erased his slur and made his smile polite. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I think I hurt my foot while falling. Not sure if my ankle is twisted or not. Can you tell me what is your usual procedure in cases like this?"

He listened to McTavish's speech, nodding occasionally, counting seconds.

"Nothing in the main workshop room," Parker whispered. "Going to the first door. That's some sort of storage. Lots of planks and metal rings. Nothing interesting. And no passages anywhere, either."

"…and I'm sure we can work this out. My son's will escort you and take your info, and I'm free for any questions." McTavish shook his hand and turned to leave.

Parker continued in a hurried whisper. "This room is some sort of bathroom. Four showers and a big bathtub," Parker said. "No passages, but… uh-oh."

"What's going on Parker?" Nate asked at once, so Eliot didn't have to think how to ask the same thing at McTavish's face.

"Trouble." Parker's voice was unsteady now. "I'm turning towards it so you can see it… the bathtub is full of blood."

"We see only black and white recording, Parker – we see something dark in the bathtub, that's all. Are you sure it's blood? What color is it?"

"Red. Bright red."

Eliot gritted his teeth through his smile. Bright red meant fresh blood. And Peter McTavish was already three steps toward the workshop.

He turned to Noreen. "Sweetheart, you have the most fascinating black eyes I've ever seen. Go great with that red hair of yours. Are you a natural ginger? Ya know what I mean? You must be ginger all over, am I right?"

Peter stopped mid-step and slowly turned back.

"Parker, now listen carefully. Whatever there is, leave it and retreat," Nate's voice was still calm. "Now, Parker."

"Okay," she whispered.

"What did I say?" Eliot blinked with the outmost innocence while ginger heads hovered around him. "I didn't mean to be-"

"Get. Out." Peter McTavish said. "And be happy we're letting you go in one piece."

"Well…"

"Not now, Eliot," Nate said. "Make sure Parker is safe back home. We have to readjust our strategy. Bathtubs full of blood change things a little, don't you think?"

"…I couldn't agree more." Eliot made a ceremonial bow before Noreen – damn, those black eyes were in fact scary as hell – and headed for the exit.

When Parker joined him, half a minute later, her face was ashen.

He kept himself two steps behind her, still feeling as if five pairs of eyes drilled holes in his back.

Not a nice feeling. He rushed Parker before him and hastened his steps.

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	3. Chapter 3

Today, two chapters at once. Enjoy. :)

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I forgot to thank Maddie Meraki for betaing this - she did a wonderful job. Thanks hon. (check her story 'The Leaving Nate Job'; you won't regret it)

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Chapter 3

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"They might be vampires."

"No, Parker. Vampires wouldn't waste all that blood in the bathtub."

Parker didn't seem convinced in spite of Nate's calm words. The thief looked pretty shaken from what she had seen. Even Sophie was still pale.

Eliot, however, had eyes only for Hardison and Nate, but especially Hardison. They all waited for the hacker to pour out something useful, but he typed and typed, and no words came.

"A family of serial killers who target people who drive a red Toyota Camry?" Parker tried again.

This time there was a significant pause before Nate said, "No, Parker, that's not very likely."

"Well..." Hardison cleared his throat. "For now, I have no other explanation. That last Toyota – thanks Parker for a good shot of a license plate – was a rent-a-car. The credit card leads to a person who is clearly made up, an alias, so that's a dead end."

"So, our missing, dark haired bearded man had a false identity," said Nate. "And that tells us nothing about the McTavishes and their strange business, it only adds more complications to it."

"A time portal?"

Nate sighed. "No, Parker."

"A family of cannibals luring their victims into their cute little house to eat them? You have to admit that shop _is_ cute. It's small in front, with that red tile roof – oh, oh, that reminds me, I didn't have the chance to check that attic, who knows what they have there below the wooden beams – maybe they dry their meat up there, the old fashioned way? And the cute little shop is huge behind it, a real lair of-"

"No, Parker."

Hardison stroked a few more keys, then pushed his laptop away and leaned back in his chair. "The McTavish family does not exist," he said. "Oh, they have everything covered for the last few years, but that's the kind of a job any decent hacker could've done in two days. Nothing fancy about it – just a standard false identity package on the Dark Net, not a deluxe edition."

"Are they a family at all?" asked Sophie. "There was something strange in their behavior on that recording…"

"I think they are," Eliot said. "Family resemblance is clear. What did you see?"

She stood up and went closer to the screens, where the frozen surveillance video showed all of them surrounding Eliot. "They are supposed to be aggressive bullies, right? But their body language doesn't say that. There's nothing instinctively violent in their movement and postures. They tensed only when you were rude to their sister. Before that, though you demolished their store, they weren't hostile."

"We'll see how they behave tonight in McRory's, when they aren't with their customers," Nate said.

For a few moments, they all watched the screens and people on them, all of them deep in thought. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Eliot noticed that Nate tilted his head a little, still looking at the family.

"Hardison," Nate said. "How long it would take you to hack into Wellford & Sons security, and access the camera on the bank's front door?"

"A couple of hours."

"Do it. Maybe we're concentrating on the wrong thing. Maybe we need to see that missing man. The bank camera probably caught him coming and entering the store."

Nate's head tilt was a well-known sign of a chain reaction starting in his mind. Eliot noticed the whole Team had picked up on that – some of them not being aware they noticed it AKA Parker, who was frowning and probably coming up with demons as a next solution – and all three of them relaxed a bit. After all, status quo was never in Nate's job description.

"And what now?" Eliot asked. "Are we doing something, or…?"

"Now the two of us are going for a walk." Nate smiled. He didn't look at him while saying that – his bright eyes, lit from the inside, never left the screens.

.

.

.

.

It wasn't often that they had a case so close to their base. Nate still held his cup of coffee as they walked down the street, to the end of the block and to the McTavish workshop. He could really get used to this.

He glanced sideways, at Eliot. The hitter hadn't said a word since they left.

"Hardison showed us a recording with Florence and Jethro walking in the park," Nate said. "She seems fine. Thought you might want to know that."

Eliot slowly turned toward him; calm, uninterested eyes met with his. "Yeah, good to know. Good idea."

Nate held his gaze. Eliot didn't divert his eyes, meeting his gaze squarely, but Nate knew him. He could almost feel the hitter's painful inward twitch.

"You seem fine, too," Nate continued.

Eliot shot a lazy smile in his direction. "Define fine."

"Right."

"Did you bring me here just to poke at me, or are we actually doing something?"

Nate motioned for him to continue walking. "We have nothing to do. So, yes, you're here because if I asked you this back home, I would have had to fight three different sabotaging maneuvers. Don't have time for that."

"If you give me something to do, I'll do it. Is that enough for you?"

"You could always do that. Even while dying. What I really want to know," he paused, waited until Eliot looked at him, then continued, "is how do you feel… emotionally?"

No self-control could hide Eliot's twitch now. The hitter stopped mid-step, and anger quickly covered all the pain in his eyes.

"That was low, Nate."

Yes, it was. Even Nate could hear how Florence had said it the first time, every accent in the sentence; he knew it resonated in Eliot's mind much more vividly.

"Insensitive bastard is my job description, remember?"

"All my baggage is neatly packed in sealed boxes and put away. Packing was nasty and it took a long time, but you already knew that. I left all the boxes behind when I came back. It's done. Finished. I'm okay."

Nate said nothing, only nodded. It wasn't important to him what Eliot would say; rather how he would say it. There was too much calm in his voice for Nate's liking, but he hoped Eliot's coping mechanisms would fade with time.

They continued their slow walk and stopped at the corner.

The street was busy, and there were a lot of parked cars, so they could watch the McTavish Barrel shop without being noticed.

"It's useful to take a look until Hardison gets us the bank camera recording," Nate said.

Eliot leaned on the wall and crossed his arms. Nate sipped his coffee at a snail's pace. It was a cold day, and a warm beverage came in handy.

They didn't have to wait for long.

Two of the brothers came out the store to smoke.

"The same ones who attacked Hardison," Nate said. "One's Callum. It seems they have a standard patrol – two in front while the others are busy. What do you think?"

Eliot studied the two guys for a moment. "No special training. Well-built and fast, but not very coordinated. Amateurs. Callum is a bull man."

"Bull what?"

"The kind of guy who would lower his head and charge at you to kick you off balance, giving the others time to finish you while you're down."

"And what do you do then?"

"Step aside and let him pass, of course."

"Do you see anything unusual here?"

Eliot thought for a moment. "The shop should've been closed, but they're still here. They've probably connected a guy hacking their cameras with me making a mess in the store. They're careful. Whatever they are doing, they won't leave it unsupervised now."

The two brothers whistled at women passing by; Nate could hear their low snickering all the way across the street.

All the people on the street avoided making eye contact with them and hurried by the shop to pass it as soon as possible.

Nate smiled to himself. "Okay, we can go back. I've seen enough."

Eliot pushed himself off the wall. "Yeah, this trip was really worth taking. Made my day. "

Nate now smiled at his gruff tone. Yes, it was worth taking. And if they were lucky, that gruff would soon become a usual annoyance. Only that would show them things were back to normal.

.

.

.

Eliot knew it would be hard to be in this apartment so soon after everything that had happened, but he didn't count on every little thing reminding him of… well, everything. Nate's poking hadn't helped at all.

He felt like some strange, unknown life form wearing the skin of a humanoid Spencer.

Late afternoons at the apartment were his favorite time of day just a month ago. Not much had changed - he had a beer in his hand and was surrounded by people he loved and felt comfortable with, yet in spite of all that, he felt restless.

The Team was playing their best game of 'Everything is normal and we ain't watching him at all' – a game they had practiced and mastered during the past few weeks.

Sophie was still pissed at him so he avoided her. He talked with Nate and Hardison about things he couldn't remember two minutes later. Eliot was allowed to check Hardison's bruises and ribs which filled some more time, mainly with manly squeaking.

Then he went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat while they waited for evening. Cooking had always calmed him down, but tonight, Sophie and Parker sat on the bar stools at the kitchen counter and watched him chop vegetables, while Hardison and Nate discussed something techy at the dining table set for five.

The last time he was cooking, there was three women sitting on those bar stools.

Restless _and_ miserable – that was a winning combination for tonight.

And George was staring at him the whole time, following him with a steady gaze wherever he moved.

By the time he brought full plates to the table – with a broad smile and relaxed movements that he carefully maintained – he was half sure the knot tied tightly in his stomach would bend him like a pretzel.

Nobody commented on him serving himself only soup.

Nobody looked at the demented, distraught elephant dancing in the middle of the table, either.

It would've been better if they had asked him something about his absence; where had he been, what he was doing… even how he felt. But he knew they wouldn't.

He even felt the ghosts of his victims were easier to keep at bay when he was alone with them, rather than here with his family. The worst and the best in his life collided now, once again showing him that he might've exaggerated his progress a little.

Whatever. Recovery and rebuilding were verbs in this case, not nouns. He couldn't expect to just rise and shine as if everything was solved. It wasn't, and it wouldn't be for the long time.

All he had to do was endure his life until it happened.

Day by day, starting with this one.

He grabbed his beer, put a calm smile on his face, and listened to Hardison explain all the ways people could hide their paper trails when buying a car.

George listened to the lecture too, so he was sure one of them would remember it later.

.

.

.

Sophie was grateful for colder nights, because that drew people in McRory's, so the Team was invisible in the crowd. The bar was full. She wasn't sure of Nate's tactic of letting the McTavishes see them all together. Yes, they would be confused and might make a premature move that would lead to a mistake… but at the same time it drastically lowered the number of possible actions. Only Parker was yet unseen.

Yet, she played along.

She sat with Nate in a small booth, chatting when noise levels allowed, all the while monitoring the entire bar. The patrons sat mainly around the bar, or played cards at the back tables. Younger people gathered in booths, or were simply standing around, chatting and playing darts. She even saw a small group of Goth girls in one corner, like a flock of purple black crows with pale faces.

Mike told them that Meghan, Hugo's owner, was one of them.

Hardison and Parker drank beer at the opposite end of the bar, closer to the counter and Mike.

Eliot covered Cora – at Mike's wish of not letting her know he was watching over her – so he mingled all over the bar.

They had all been there than an hour there when the hitter came over to their table and sat. "What if they don't show up?"

"Then we'll go home," Nate said. "Nothing will change, we continue tomorrow."

Sophie watched as Eliot nodded and sipped his beer. His left arm was casually over the back rest, and he watched the people around them.

No one else would see anything unusual in his behavior; he seemed to be in good mood, relaxed, and actually having fun.

However, she knew better, but his smile was a good sign. The effort he put into his normality was an even better sign.

Finally Eliot stood up. "Mike says this is past their usual time. If they don't show up in the next hour, we go home?"

Nate nodded. "Yes. No point in waiting."

"Any plans for tomorrow?"

"Working on a few ideas, yes. By tomorrow I might even figure out what confuses me the most about this case."

Eliot smirked. "Good luck with that." Then he looked at her, and his smirk faded an almost invisible nuance. He could feel she was watching him, studying him, and his eyes hardened. It was just a blink, less than a second, before he grinned again, taking his beer. "Or I could stay longer and have some fun."

In Nate's slight hesitation before he nodded and grinned back, Sophie saw he made the same conclusion she had about Eliot's effort to show them his good mood. Nate couldn't see or feel many things, but the things people hid were always clear to him.

He waited until Eliot disappeared amongst the people before he turned to her. "And, what do you think about our Team being complete again?"

She almost chuckled at his choice of words. They were in her field – human feelings – and his discomfort was palpable.

"He wouldn't come back unless he sorted all the ghosts in his head," she said. "It will get easier with time, but he is keeping his head above water."

"And that... the other thing?"

"Florence, Nate, Florence. You can say her name."

"Yes, that," he said gruffly. "You think maybe he wasn't so involved, that no harm is done?"

Well, every mastermind had to be clueless in at least in one thing. It was just her luck she got one who was clueless in matters of the heart. She suppressed a sigh and smiled at him. "Look at him and tell me what you see," she said.

Eliot was with four young women, offering them his most enchanting smile. The girls made a circle around him, moving in tighter and tighter after every smile.

"He will do anything to stop us pondering about his emotional state and love life," she said when Nate failed to speak. "Including flirting, having fun, and heck, even falling in love if needed."

A shadow fell over their table, and Hardison bent closer to their heads. "And in case you didn't notice, he is again polite, calm and smiling like he was when we got him home from Estrella," the hacker said. "Defenses all around. We have to break through, as soon as possible."

Another clueless man. "Leave him be, Hardison," she said. "He has just returned. Give him some time and don't press him."

"But I have an idea-"

"Definitely not. You'll make things worse."

Hardison exchanged a quick glance with Nate before he sighed at her and nodded; she knew she would have to keep an eye on both of them.

"Just for the record." Hardison raised his finger. "He is acting. And when you act, and hide things, it becomes harder to pull yourself out of it." With that, he turned around and went back to Parker.

 _And what would you know, you sweet, innocent boy, about pain, guilt, and screams in the night_?

.

.

.

In the end, a working evening and an ambush for the bad guys became a night of good fun with people they knew from the bar. Eliot challenged a group of younger men to play darts, then Hardison and Parker joined in and the entire bar cheered and called rounds while they played. Even Parker and Hardison enjoyed that, though there was a visible aura of attentiveness around both Eliot and Hardison when it was Parker's turn to shoot.

Sophie enjoyed the smiles all around. Mike and Cora ran to and fro with full trays of beer and snacks on the house. Even patrons nodded in approval.

Nate allowed himself to be dragged into a game of poker. Sophie kept an eye on him, yet there was no need. He returned after a few games in a much better mood.

In the meantime, the darts group had broken into a few smaller teams and continued to play, which gave a chance for the rest of the Team to slide back into the background and mingle in separate parts of the bar.

If the McTavishes came in now, they wouldn't see any of them at first, but they would be observed from all sides. Eliot flirted with the Goth women two tables behind Sophie and Nate; he had that old predatory glint in his eye, and a high voltage smile that melted even tables at a twenty feet radius, but he kept the entrance directly in his line of sight. Parker and Hardison returned to their stance on the bar stools, watching the door in the mirror above the counter, and Hardison talked with patrons.

But Sophie had enough of this as time passed. She started the evening with cappuccino, and ended it with white wine – and there was only a definitive amount of white wine one could drink without ruining everything. It was rare their job was this relaxed and positive, so she decided not to ask when they were supposed to leave – one of the others would do it in her place.

She glanced around to see who would be the first candidate. Parker seemed slightly bored, but Hardison still gesticulated in a deep debate about something. Sophie didn't even bother to check Eliot – it wasn't likely he would simply stop flirting when surrounded with young women. And that was good for him, too.

She glanced at her glass, eyeing the wine and calculating how long she could sip it, when a touch on her shoulder drew her attention. Eliot stood behind her and Nate; they both turned to face him.

"Are we done here?" he asked. His voice was gravelly and low. "It's late."

The first look at his face started her alarms ringing. His face was so drained of any color that it reminded her of that first dreadful day they brought him home after That Night, when even Betsy didn't know if would he live or not.

"I'll call it a day," Nate said. "They won't show up this late, and we all need a long night's sleep. Tomorrow will be busy, especially for you. Five large guys won't send themselves to ER, right?"

"Yeah." Eliot said. "Was just going to say the same thing. Going home."

He simply turned around and left.

Nate raised his eyebrows while looking at his back, but said nothing.

Sophie bit her lip, thinking. Maybe this was too tiresome for him, still barely recovered? Betsy said he would take months to come to back to his old shape. But there was no sway in Eliot's steps, nor were his shoulders hunched in tiredness.

Nate got up. "Coming up?" he asked.

"No, I'll go home," she said. "I'm tired."

"I'll talk to Mike and see if there's anything new; maybe the patrons noticed something important that we missed."

"You do that," she said lightly. But her eyes darted to the Goth group that Eliot had just left; the women were huddled close one to another in a universal comforting cloud. Only five minutes ago they were staring at him almost enchanted, like little flies caught in his webs.

Well, even Eliot Spencer could face a rejection from time to time; a game of flirting was always risky. It wasn't the best time for that, though. He looked too shaken.

It wasn't hers to poke at that. She stood up and collected her things, deciding what to do. She looked at the door where Eliot disappeared, then back to girls.

Would simple rejection from a woman put that haunted edge in his eyes? No, not even now, so close to Florence.

Sophie put her phone in her purse and went over to the Goth group.

"You're Meghan, right?" she smiled at the woman in the middle of the group. "My friend borrowed Hugo today. Is everything alright, dear?"

She knew the woman wouldn't say a word, so she looked at the two others. One was angry, the other was sad.

"That rude jack-ass," the angry one said. "We should've kicked him!"

She blinked in surprise, for the moment not knowing what to say. The words 'rude and jack-ass' didn't belong in the same sentence with Eliot Spencer when women were in question. The man couldn't even hit a woman unless she at least tried to blow his brains out. She never saw him being anything less than polite and charming.

"That guy that just left? Handsome, long hair? I know him. Never saw him being rude."

"Is that so?" The mad one scoffed. Sophie looked at the sad one, with the question in her eyes.

"Tell me what happened."

"He bought us a drink," she said. "We talked. Everything was normal. But then he said something about our clothes, and asked about the differences between Gothic and Emo culture. Then Meghan told him she wasn't a Goth."

Sophie raised her eyebrows. If this was just about stupid outfits…

But Meghan looked at her then, with red eyes. "I wear black because I lost someone. It's a tradition in my family – you wear black when you mourn people. I told him that. He looked like a guy whom you could tell something like that, who would understand. He asked-" Her voice broke and she shook her head as her eyes filled with tears.

The angry one took over. "He asked about it, and Meghan told him. It was her brother. He was shot down in a gunfight a few weeks ago, when the Mexicans and the Irish went to war with each other. He was only sixteen."

Sophie froze.

"He stared at Meghan – no words, no condolences, _nothing_ – and simply turned around and left."

She stared at them with her mind blank, and only after a long, long pause was she able to come up with some words. "I'm so sorry to hear that," she recited her mantra. "I'm sure it's awful for you, but you have good friends with you now. I'll make sure that guy doesn't do that ever again."

She didn't wait for their response; she left them as quickly as she could.

Dear God. He didn't need this now, so soon after he returned. Not after she spent weeks to show him – to convince him – that the gang members who died That Night chose that fate themselves. That they lived by the sword and died by the sword.

She searched the bar, but Nate was already gone. Parker and Hardison still laughed with someone – no, they weren't right for this.

She opened the door and hurried into the night.

Eliot's Challenger was still parked in front.

With a sinking feeling in her gut, she knew where he was.

.

.

.

A street light in front of the bank drew long shadows toward the McTavish shop. Being the last house on the street, followed only with an empty construction site, the shop was half in the darkness. Only now, when she came closer, did Sophie notice that the street light in front of the shop was dead. She doubted it was a coincidence.

No light came through the front door and windows, but she could bet the workshop behind them was full of light.

In the darkness, on an empty street, it was so easy to remember Parker's words about vampires, cannibals, and serial killers. She shivered, yet she continued.

Sliding past the shop's front door, she heard something over the constant background Boston roar; the sounds of fists hitting flesh.

Four dark shapes circled one around another through the debris and broken wooden pallets. From here there was no way to tell them apart. The shop cast a heavy shadow, blocking the light from the bank.

Her own shadow wasn't visible, because she glued herself to the corner of the shop, only peeking out at the construction site. Knowing the front door was behind her raised the hair on her neck, but she couldn't tear her gaze from the fight.

It took her only fifteen seconds to see which one was Eliot.

As she watched, breathless, he was taken down with a nasty hit – but he got up, returning to the fight. Three times he was knocked down and three times he struggled back to his feet. Yet he didn't even once try to hit his attackers.

He was the only one not fighting back.

Just one more fall, and he wouldn't be able to stand, or fight, even if he wanted to – it was time for her to do something, to call for help. Half frozen with grief, she fumbled in her purse for her phone. She took it out. And stopped.

No. There was no man who could help Eliot Spencer now. Only he could do that.

She put the phone back in the purse, and stepped forward.

Three shapes were facing her, and they stopped when they saw her – but Sophie had eyes only for the man with his back turned to her, kneeling, only seconds away from falling.

"Eliot," she said.

He raised his head. He didn't turn around, didn't move.

"What the fuck…?" One of them took a step toward her.

It was his last.

.

.

.

"Give me your car keys."

No reaction. Sophie didn't have time for this. Her quick fingers danced over Eliot's jacket, pulling them from his pocket.

She had helped him walk into the darker shadows, but they were still too close to the shop, where the rest of the McTavishes took care of their fallen family. Darkness carried Noreen's voice to them; she spoke of the ER, of a car and speed.

"Don't move," she whispered and left him sitting.

She returned with his Challenger when another car, loaded with unconscious people, passed by her, heading for the nearest hospital.

"Get in."

He was so damn slow. It had nothing to do with the beating he suffered; his mind seemed drained. Probably his soul, too.

She drove slowly, not turning her head to him, giving him time. Only after fifteen minutes did she throw a sideways glance at him. He sat with his eyes closed, but he wasn't unconscious. His back was straight.

It took another fifteen minutes of aimless driving before her hands stopped shaking, and the lump in her throat cleared.

"Do you have any plans for tonight?" she asked lightly when she stopped the car in front of her place.

The normality of her voice stirred him. "No," he said.

"Good. Now get out."

She led him up to her apartment. He had never been here before, only in the old one that got blown away with Chaos' bomb.

She put soft pillows on her sofa in the living room, and brought him ice packs to put on his bruises while she prepared some tea.

All along she watched him; a silent, empty shell of a man who just stared in front of him.

A tray with tea and chocolate chip cookies was followed by a warm blanket. Without any ceremony she simply lifted his feet and took off his boots, pushing the small table closer to him so he could half lie.

She perched herself on the couch next to him, and finally, he turned to her. Those tired, tired eyes. She hoped she would never see them again.

"How long were you…?" He stopped mid-sentence, but at least he spoke.

 _Yes, I saw it all_. Someone else would lie to calm him down; not Sophie Devereaux. "Long enough. Now shut up."

She pushed a cup into his hands and clicked the TV remote. The starting credits of _The Sound of Music_ filled the screen.

.


	4. Chapter 4

So, this is it - probably my last story here. I will write The Brown Dutch Job, more short stories, and very likely The Emerald Island Job, but they won't be published here or on A03, so I paste here the the important note from the first chapter:

 **I might be forced to remove my stories from this site, and A03 permanently, because I will use them in my new original fiction.**

 **I don't know when, and I have no means to send a warning before it happens. If any of you want to stay in touch, or have these stories as Word docs or PDFs, contact me at valaraucoramainen AT yahoo DOTCOM, or valwenel AT gmail DOTCOM and put LEVERAGE in subject line. I will continue to write Leverage stories in this series, but email will be the only way to get them. I will collect your emails and in the future make a newsletter, and send stories to all of you in one go. Those new stories won't be published anywhere else - only you will get them.**

 **Send that mail right away - this is the last call.  
**

* * *

Chapter 4

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.

.

Once again – a headache with a hangover. Nate was sick and tired of being sick and tired for no logical reason. He didn't even drink that much last night. It must've been some virus.

 _Or you're getting old_ , nagged an old-man's shaky voice in his mind. It sounded awfully like his father's voice.

The first thing he did after waking up and climbing down from his bedroom was to lower all the shutters, creating a comfy half-darkness that didn't hurt his eyes.

The second thing he did was make coffee.

He enjoyed his first cup with closed eyes, holding the warmth between his palms, listening to the rejuvenating silence. Early mornings weren't so bad when you were alone and at peace.

Then the front door slammed, and Hardison strode into the room carrying two laptop bags.

"Morning, Nate. Morning, George."

"M'rnin'."

"Ah, aren't we a ray of sunshine today?" Hardison passed by him, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder – a pat that vibrated through the every bone in his skull and settled in his eye sockets. Hardison was already clicking the remote, putting the morning news on one screen, some greyish recording on another other, and unexplainably, an aerobics class from some obscure morning show on the last four.

The speaker on the TV rumbled about the Middle East crisis, cheerful pop music followed jumping women in pink, and as a final blow, Hardison went to the other wall and raised all shutters he had lowered just five minutes ago.

Hardison stretched out his arms and took a long, deep breath. "That's better! You have to feel some sun on your face if you want your day to start well."

"You haven't slept at all, have you?"

"Of course not. I'm fueled with Orange soda, sugar and artificial colors. I'm an Orange man! Fear me."

"I do." Nate sighed. "What have you got?"

"Hacking the bank's security systems in the blink of an eye works only in movies, and maybe in TV shows of dubious quality – especially those who made a mistake and made their heroes too damn strong and invincible. Florence told me about it – the majority of modern shows are filled with Mary Sues who not only-"

"For fucks sake, Hardison."

"Methinks there is a more polite way to say: show me whatcha got."

Nate tightened his grip around the cup and counted to ten.

"Okay, okay, no need for fuming." Hardison opened his bags and took two laptops out before putting them on the working desk. "Let me just connect these two with my computer here, boot everything up, and I'll show you."

Hardison got busy humming along with the music from the screens, until Nate decided that the world of permanent squinting wasn't an option. After all, this was still his apartment. He got up and joined Hardison – and his remote – at the working table and first the aerobics died, then the Middle East, and finally, Hardison fell into sulking silence.

Daylight was bearable now, so he didn't go to the windows to kill the sun.

"Now pay attention," Hardison said. He took the remote and pulled up footage from the camera above the Wellford & Sons' front door. The camera was round, fish-eye style, so it showed a good part of the street in front of the barrel shop next door.

"They had a few nasty traps in their security, that's why it took me so long," Hardison said. "But after I was in, the rest was easy. This is a minute before our missing man – dark haired, bearded, Toyota-Camry-driving missing man – parks in front and goes into the barrel shop."

Nate waited, studying the angles and coverage of the recording. It covered a wide circle, and everything around the barrel shop, though murky and pixelated, was visible.

When the missing man finally got out of the car, there was nothing special to see. He locked the door, made several steps to the shop, and entered. End of story.

"Nate?"

He raised his gaze to Hardison. The hacker watched him calmly now, with no further trace of that annoying good mood.

"I didn't spend the entire night just hacking the bank. I worked on something else, equally important."

"Let me see."

Hardison focused back on his laptop and the missing man disappeared, while a dark mess replaced him.

"This is original footage I worked with," Hardison said. "I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious around the shop during the night, hence all the black – and it took me several hours until I managed to clear this into…this." He pressed a key, and black and grey shadows turned pale green. "I ran this through numerous enhancing programs, and this is the best I got. Kinda like night-vision recording. You won't see many details, but it's enough to recognize people."

In complete silence, they watched Eliot approaching the two McTavishes smoking outside the shop. One more came out, and in a mess of lags, freezing and white noise, they watched a fight.

Nate wasn't sure it could be called a fight at all, at least not until Sophie arrived.

Hardison stopped the recording when the Challenger left the street.

"And?" the hacker asked.

"What and? You saw what I saw. No need to ponder upon it."

"Are you serious? Tell me, our fearless leader, what do you think would have happened there if Sophie didn't show up?"

"Eliot would have an entire set of bruises more than he has now. Don't make drama where there is none, Hardison. He wasn't going there to get killed. He isn't the suicidal type. If Sophie didn't show up, he would've fought back. Maybe a little later, but he would. And you know it too."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because we both know him, but you allow your fears and worry to play the worst case scenarios in your head. I think without emotional engagement. That's the difference."

"Yeah, Nate is right," said Parker.

They both turned to the thief who was using her squirt gun to water George, on the opposite side of the front door. Nate blinked, half surprised with his own surprise.

"And you know that, how?" Hardison asked.

"Because if he got himself killed, who would take care of us? He is ours. He knows that. Am I right, George?"

Both him and Hardison, Nate noticed, looked at George as if expecting him to nod, and Nate shook his head.

"Okay, enough of this. You two, find something to do – quietly, no aerobics, please – while I watch our missing man again. Hardison, put him back on the screen. Find a good place in the recording, where he is clear, and freeze it. Eh, one more thing… put up the image of all of them surrounding Eliot amidst the fallen barrels. The one where Sophie commented how they weren't being hostile."

"Okay, both coming up. What's the plan for today?"

Nate turned his wrist and checked his watch. "I'll go to the barrel shop in… ten minutes. I want to talk again with Peter and his family. After that, we'll see."

Maybe he should change his tactics and just try to survive day by day? The man in the mirror didn't look thrilled with that idea, so Eliot carefully tapped a new bruise on his cheek bone with a towel, and stopped looking at himself. Looking into his own eyes had always been disturbing. This morning especially.

Looking around him was even worse. Sophie's bathroom, a luxurious and pale pink sparkling place, was filled with hundreds of small, smaller, and tiny as fuck bottles. It took him twelve minutes to locate and recognize soap; after that he was pretty much too discouraged to try to find anything that a man would normally use.

"Are you done yet?" she called from the kitchen, impatiently, as if she didn't spend at least one hour in here herself.

"Yeah, coming out."

"You have new clothes hanging on the door knob."

He opened the door and fetched them. The dark shirt and trousers weren't Nate's. They fit perfectly.

"Why do you have my clothes in your apartment?" he asked when he joined her. She was ready to go, putting breakfast plates in the dishwasher.

"I have several sets of all the Team's clothes. Emergency thing. You of all people should understand that."

He just stood there and watching her putting on her coat. Since he had woken up on that couch, the morning had been filled with her chatting. She hadn't given him a chance to say anything about last night.

"Sophie, look…"

"No. We aren't discussing that. Fetch your jacket, we're leaving."

"So you can wait until I'm relaxed, and then attack when I'm not prepar-"

She stopped fumbling for the keys in her purse and looked at him with dark, keen eyes. "You want me to say something, Eliot?" Her question was tricky; her voice deep and soft. She stepped closer to him and he fought the urge to step back. Her eyes darkened even more. "Okay," she whispered, still holding his gaze. "You will never know peace, Eliot Spencer, until…" Her voice faded and a smile broke through the darkness in her eyes. "Now insert some deep motivational crap while you drive, okay sweetie?"

She pushed the jacket into his hands and nudged him through the door.

In fact, he did just that in the short fifteen minute drive to Nate's apartment, and he could bet she was aware of it. She hadn't said a single word, just letting him think.

He stopped on the nineteenth possible ending of that sentence when he parked in front of McRory's and turned the engine off.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." It was said lightly, but no cheerful smile followed the words.

All the way up the stairs and in Nate's corridor, he wondered why she hadn't let him speak. The answer to that riddle would have to wait, though; he had to put himself in order and concentrate on the job at hand.

Only Parker and Hardison welcomed them when they entered the apartment, both of them glued to Hardison's laptop.

"Where's Nate?" Sophie asked, heading for the kitchen. "Still asleep?"

"Working," Parker said. "Talking to the mark." She waved her hand toward the screens, where Nate stood with Peter McTavish and Noreen.

Eliot suppressed a curse. The shop's interior surveillance camera was positioned above Noreen's counter and it was a standard model for shops: low quality, but able to record an entire room. He didn't see any other customers inside. It could be a coincidence, of course… but it would be so easy for one of the brothers to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED without Nate noticing it. He stood with his back turned to the entrance.

The stiffness of their posture revealed what was going on even before Hardison switched their earbuds to the channel that matched the screen, and they heard Peter McTavish say, "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

.

.

.

This time Nate didn't bother to bring his cane to the barrel shop, yet he kept the limp, just in case.

"Oh, you're back!" Noreen greeted him with smile. "You didn't collect your package for your lady the last time, because of that unhappy accident. I kept it in case you returned. Do you want it now?"

"You call what happened an unhappy accident?" he said. "I call it getting rid of a hacker who tried to access your security system. Didn't your father tell you what that was about?"

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and her smile faded into an uncertain grimace.

Nate leaned onto the counter with his elbows. "I wonder how long it will take for your father and brothers to-"

"Not as long as you think," said a voice behind him. Peter McTavish and Callum stood only three steps behind him. "Is this man bothering you, Noreen?"

"I'm not sure yet," she said. "He talked about the hacker and our security system."

Nate turned sideways, one elbow still on the counter. Now he could see them all.

"I was wondering why someone would hack into a simple shop. I guess there's nothing valuable here to steal. But who knows, maybe you have barrels full of…something."

"You _are_ definitely bothering my daughter," Peter said. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"What will you do? Call the Police?" Nate smirked. "I don't think so. You didn't call them to report a hacking attempt, did you?"

A moment of silence stretched. He continued to smile, waiting.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Nate Ford, and I live nearby. And I'm here to see who would ask-"

"How do you know what that man did with his laptop?" It was Noreen who said that, and Nate's fake smile grew into the genuine one. "You were here in the shop when it happened," she continued. "Even if you asked him later, I doubt he would say that he was hacking."

" _This_ is a surprise. And moments like this one are also the reason I love my job."

Two McTavishes took a step closer. The other three of them showed up at the arch to the workshop; one limping, one with his left arm in a sling, and one with a purple, closed eye.

"What is your job, Nate Ford?" Noreen asked.

Oh, how he enjoyed this part of the case, when tiny little threads started to unravel. He watched her eyes – warm black velvet – and he admired her skill. Spatial awareness, right. It was worth it to be wrong, because now he could follow all of his wrong presumptions and make them right. There was no abuse in this family. Her attentiveness was of his kind – a mastermind who had to be in control of everything.

"My job is the same as yours, my dear."

She stared at him, thinking.

He stared at her, thinking.

The rest of the family patiently waited for her cue.

That was the moment when the front door burst open, and one more family entered to join the fun.

Eliot stepped in first, Parker and Hardison followed behind him, one on his left and one on his right. Sophie entered last, slowly, and turned the key in the lock.

"I see." Noreen now smiled. "Dad?"

Peter moved. Before Nate could turn to glance at him, he felt a cold barrel on the side of his forehead.

Eliot tilted his head a millimeter to the left, assessing their positions, and Nate quickly raised his hand to stop him.

"Nobody move," he said. "Peter, you shoot."

"What?"

Nate risked a small movement of his head to see him out of the corner of his eye, over the barrel. "I said, shoot. Kill me. I promise, my people will just leave after that and we won't come after you. If you want to shoot, do it now."

No reaction. He didn't expect one.

"Okay," he continued. "I'll try to be more clear. If you shoot me now, I give you my word they will leave you alone. Only my death will allow you to finish what you started. Do it."

The same glazed stares came from the both groups, and he laughed.

"But you can't," he said. "Because you're not murderers."

Parker cleared her throat. " _Bathtub,"_ she whispered.

"Dad, put the gun down," Noreen said. She wasn't smiling anymore when she looked at him. "I think it's time to tell us what you want. Why are you here?"

"I want you to leave. This is my block, and I don't want you here. Abort your action, and no Police will be involved, no one will come after you. Stay, and I will end you."

" _Bathtub_!"

"What bloody bathtub?" Noreen said.

" _Exactly! Bloody bathtub_!"

"Parker, stop whispering." Nate took a step aside, and when no one stopped him, went to the barrels and took one for himself. "Now sit and relax. No one is attacking anyone – we shall only talk."

A moment of hesitation, but after Noreen nodded, her people slowly spread around, sitting on barrels. Callum, however, didn't sit, he stayed by her counter. The Team followed Nate's lead and sat on their side of the shop - all except Eliot, of course. The hitter's stare was more hostile towards Nate than Peter's could have ever been – there were sentences and sentences in it. But Nate could come here alone – he knew there wasn't any danger.

"My Team also needs some explanations. One of them," he nodded at Sophie, "already found out that your bully acting wasn't genuine. You just played a role. You're not violent criminals, and you don't hurt-"

" _Bathtub!_ "

Noreen frowned at Parker. "What's wrong with you?"

"We'll come to the bathtub part. Eliot, when you want to knock someone out of the equation, how long does it take?"

"One hit, sometimes two. Why?"

"When amateurs want to knock someone out, how long?"

"Three to five, and few boot kicks. Why?"

"If those three gentlemen over there wanted you down last night, why did they take so long? Because they were only fighting. It was a brawl, not an elimination."

"Speak for yourself," one of the three, the one with a sling, mumbled under his breath.

Eliot hid the grin.

"I had one more expert whom I didn't listen to," Nate went on. "Who told me what you were doing the first minute we heard about you. You were right, Parker. They are here after Wellford & Sons bank."

"Well, duh!"

"And I admire the mastermind behind it," he said smiling at Noreen. "The one who came up with the plan, who told them how to act to make sure everybody minded their own business, who chose the position, made this shop, and set everything in motion. You're a talent, my dear."

"You speak nonsense."

"We are not wired, you don't have to choose your words. And now we come to the bathtub part, but that is an explanation for my people – you'll see why." He turned to the Team. "I studied the picture of the missing man we got from the bank camera. And I studied the picture of the McTavishes here in the shop. Then I measured both. Sir, you with a purple eye, would you step forward? I'd like to introduce my Team to their missing, dark haired, bearded man."

Of course the guy didn't step forward, but he didn't have to.

"You see, the McTavish family doesn't exist. And when Eliot and Parker came here after we got a tip of a bearded man entering and never leaving the shop, they arrived right after the last one of you became a red-haired Scot. Parker, I think what you saw in the bathtub was only red hair dye."

"Possible," Noreen's lips drew up, in an involuntary smile.

"Only possible, black-eyed red-head? Do you know how many gingers with black eyes are in the world? And after the bank is robbed and you disappear, what else would people remember? Red-headed Scot bullies and their shy sister. I don't know who you really are, but I can bet you're the opposite of that in your real life. And you probably operate one state at the time, moving all over the country, state by state, each time with different appearances and new aliases."

"But you're not digging," Parker said before Noreen could respond. "So, what it is? The roof? It must be the roof; it's the only part I didn't have time to check. You're digging a hole in the wall – the first floor of a bank that size must be… control room. Yes, this building is from 1984, and modern bank security systems have to override one problem in construction. If it's model-"

"Enough, Parker. Let the lady and gentlemen think about my proposal."

Noreen shook her head. "That's not a proposal. That's an ultimatum."

"I stand corrected." Nate grinned, baring his teeth. "I give you one day to close everything and retreat. Tomorrow morning, this place will swarm with Police. Don't be here."

Noreen exchanged glances with Peter and Callum.

"I wouldn't try anything," Nate said. "We already stated you're not violent. Keep it that way. There are many states in front of you. Even if you try, it wouldn't end well. Eliot is so pissed off at me right now that he would tear all five of you apart."

A moment of silence fell while she thought.

"We'll discuss your offer," she finally said.

"So, that's it." Nate got up, and waved to the Team to leave. Sophie went out first; Hardison and Parker followed her. Eliot waited for him.

"Wait," Noreen said when he was two steps from the exit. She reached under the desk and Eliot tensed, coiling like a spring – but she simply threw a package wrapped in plain white paper at him. "A few barrels for the road," she said. "As a parting gift."

"I have one too," Nate said. "The Toyota Camry is a good car, but you should start using some other models from now on."

Her smile followed him as he stepped out. He flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and shut the door.

.

.

.

.

"…and about my idea you didn't want to hear the last time, I know how to turn this Eliot into the old Eliot…"

"Not now, Hardison." Nate folded his newspaper and took his cup. Mornings with Hardison had apparently became a thing. What a joy.

When Sophie showed up at the door – _Parker and Eliot still aren't here, thank god_ – he thought that would divert Hardison's attention off of him, but it took one look at her face to know he wasn't that lucky.

"Do you know what Mike told me?" she asked sweetly. "Wellford & Sons was robbed last night."

"Oh, what a surprise."

"Since you became a… oh, right. You have us. But I wouldn't expect you to allow, or even encourage, a robbery. You practically told them to go for it now before you made your move. And you gave them the whole day. Why?"

"I like them. The world needs more nonviolent criminals."

They both stared at him.

"That came out wrong. It's early morning, people. What I meant…"

"We know what you meant," Hardison said. "We just can't believe it. Are you sure-" His phone rang and he fished it out of his pockets. "Yes, Parker. You're doing _what_? No, momma, don't, I don't think it's a good idea- Don't hang- Parker!"

He lowered his phone and squinted. "She said she and Eliot are gonna be here in five minutes – she's with him because she got an idea how to make this all right."

The blood in Nate's veins made a krck-krck sound, as if slowly freezing. Sophie scrunched up her nose.

"Call Eliot?" Hardison suggested.

"Nah, it's probably too late. Whatever it is, he'll survive." Nate got up to pour more coffee. "Besides, our bank-robbers… if they didn't rob this bank, they would have stayed in Massachusetts and tried another one, maybe nearby. This way they're happy, we're happy, McRory's people are happy – the bank not so much but they have insurance - and we can move on and think about real jobs. I got a phone call from Portland, from a new client – a woman will meet us. It's something about gold and her grandma's necklace."

"Which brings us back to my idea," Hardison said. "I know how to make Eliot his old, twitchy, annoyed self. I'll drive him crazy."

"That will surely work," Nate agreed wholeheartedly. "You drive me crazy without even trying. But what exactly you have in mind?"

"I'll be obnoxious."

Silence.

"That's a plan? That's daily routine."

Hardison spread out his arms. "I'll raise my obnoxiousness to an entirely new level, never before seen. He'll crawl out of his skin, hate me, try to kill me – and he'll be so occupied with my bullshit that he won't have time to be the silent, polite and closed off creep we have now."

A sound of heavy stomping came from the corridor, followed by hysterical female laughter.

"Uh-oh."

The door opened and Eliot rushed in, carrying Parker over his left shoulder.

Nate had never seen his hitter with bewildered eyes, with this combination of aghast annoyance and amusement. It seemed that Parker's laughter already did the 'crawling out of his skin' part.

"What has she done?" Sophie whispered.

Eliot sat Parker on the floor. "I decided to walk to here," he started. "She showed up and…She walked twenty feet behind me and…" and he stopped, raised both his arms in the air in bewilderment, then threw himself in the chair.

Still, his face was lit with inward laughter as he shook his head.

Parker pulled her phone out of her pocket and raised it up.

"Parker, _don't_!" Eliot growled – and all three of them breathlessly watched, like so many times before, that helpless anger surrendering to the laugh.

"I walked behind him," she said with her eyes gleaming like two crazy diamonds. "And I knew what he needed to feel better."

"Don't, or I swear to you, I'll snap that thing and-"

With the devil's cackle, Parker pressed a button, and The Eye of the Tiger music from _Rocky_ filled the office.

Nate took his coffee and retreated to the dining table, enjoying the chaos of laughter, screams, music, and squirt guns that ensued.

Still, he wasn't the only one watching it with a smile. He raised his cup to salute George, and the tree politely nodded back.

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\- THE END -


End file.
